A Year Of Friendship
by RobertDowneyJrLove
Summary: Beginning with a dance on New Year's eve, follow Chance and Ilsa down the rabbit hole of 2014 and see what happens to their relationship along the way...
1. New Year's Dance

_December 31st, 2013_

New Year's Eve. The only day of the year, aside from July 4th, when it was acceptable to send thousands of dollars up in smoke with only a ten second spray of color illuminating the night sky and burnt wrappers littering grassy lawns to show for it. When the song, Auld Lang Syne, becomes the most annoying song you think you might ever hear, aside from the cheerful Christmas tunes the department stores play on loop and for most, it's a time to think about the past year and their hopes for the new year. It's also a flurry of champagne, cheap strings of beads befitting Mardi Gras more than New Years, and the odd drunkard who felt the need to dance naked in the street as a way to ring in the new year.

Or, perhaps that was just in San Fracisco.

She's celebrated New Years in many different countries, from the heart of London to the dusty plains of Africa to the snowy moutaintops of Switzerland, but the distinct flavor the U.S. adds to New Years celebrations is new and different. It's also a taste Ilsa Pucci hasn't quite acquired yet. While she was sure San Francisco had plenty to offer as far as parties went, the nightlife just wasn't her style. She'd much rather celebrate the coming of the new year in a much more subtle way.

Which is why 2014 will find her tucked in her office with her cell phone turned off and a pile of paperwork that needs to be done for the Marshall Pucci Foundation. It's only coffee for her this year. She had shied away from alcohol, still remembering a time when a bottle of rum, warm in her veins and mixing with sodium thiopental, had led to a kiss between her and her colleague. That had been over two years ago and even now, she keeps her drinks strictly non-alcoholic when there's a possibility of running into _him. _

"What are you doing here?"

Speak of the devil.

How poetic that the moment she chooses to look up at him is the very second a firework pops and a starburst of color sprays bright against a velvet purple sky. Outside her window, the crowd gathered on the street below gasps loudly but she pays it no mind, instead focusing on her colleague. He looks utterly disheveled, draped across her doorway in a pair of navy blue sweatpants with messy blond hair and bleary eyes. There's a decided lack of sleep in his voice - insomniac, she decides. Or, chronic late night television viewer.

"Oh." she manages to play it relatively cool, not wanting to alert him to the fact that she had been thinking about him. "Mister Chance."

"What are you still doing here?" he repeats his question, crossing his arms over his chest. His very bare chest with the lightest dusting of coarse hair carving out his muscles.

"I have paperwork to do." She offers succinctly, scrawling her name in elegant script on yet another legal waiver. Always an act first, think later sort of guy, he steps into her office and makes his way around her desk to peek over her shoulder at the papers she's signing. She just continues her work, not bothering to pay any mind to what he is doing. By the third paper, she feels uncomfortable under his intense blue gaze and tilts her head back to meet his eyes; "Do you need something, Mister Chance?"

"Come with me." a gentle hand squeezes her shoulder, encouraging her to get up.

"I can't, I have paper work." Ilsa protests, not that it'll do her any good.

The light plays in his eyes, sparking with mischief, and his lips curl into a devilish grin. He's obviously come up with a contingency plan, should one be needed. He didn't really expect her to go without protest, did he? Sometimes, he greatly underestimates her ability to resist him. Then again, he's also well aware of what he does to her and takes advantage of it. He reaches for her hand and tugs her out of her chair. With a slightly disgruntled sigh, she relents and follows him, flipping the switch to turn off her office light before he can tug her completely out of the room.

"That work will still be there, tomorrow." He reminds her, reaching the window that looks out over the city in three long strides. "For now, let's enjoy it."

He meets her gaze with raised eyebrows, as if daring her to defy him. She knows she can't win. He's far to clever and fast for her. She relaxes against the window sill and watches the colorful display but it doesn't take long for her to shift anxiously. Even in the safe retreat of darkness, she feels flustered and shy, afraid to open up to him, even though this is the same man who knew every detail of her marriage. It is still difficult to open up to him, two years later.

The ghost of a grin playing on his lips is concealed by the darkness, his sharp eyes focusing on her instead of the fireworks. A kaleidoscope of colors from the bright cherry reds and fiery oranges to the jeweled blues, purples, and greens to the resplendent silvers and golds dance across her face and in her hair, slipping through the black curls and adding a dimension that hadn't been there before. She is worth far more than the adjective, impressive. And, under the cover of the dark, he can let himself think this way. When the sharp light of day isn't flushing out flaws and imperfections and idiosyncrasies that neither one of them can tolerate in the other.

"Let's dance."

His words mimic those spoken at a charity party a few years ago, only less forced, less out of need to put on a false show for the crowd and more of his own want. Yes, want. Perhaps sexual, perhaps more. He isn't sure. All he knows is that she is standing so damn close he can smell her perfume and she looks like a Goddess, even in her usual work attire. And he wants to dance because he wants to know what she feels like. He wants to know if she's as warm and as soft as she looks, without the stiffness of being in front of a crowd, without any of her usual facade.

"Mister Chance..." her voice tapers off into nothingness. What can she say when he's sliding his hand from her elbow down to her palm? She simply shuts her mouth and allows him to lead her out into an open part of the office.

He forgoes the traditional dance position in favor of one that is closer, more intimate, and more affectionate. He wraps both arms around her waist, holding her close to his body. She hesitantly, as if afraid she'll scare him off, wraps her arms around his shoulders and settles against him. He's warm and hard and fits against her snugly. It takes them a few steps to find the beat, the synchronize with one another, and to relax but she's the first one to do so.

Neither of them lead.

It's the first time that one of them hasn't had the upper-hand in a given situation and it's strange but the closeness of their embrace puts them on equal footing. They can't fight for the lead without stepping on one another's toes and they do that professionally. They don't want to do it personally, too. So, they slow dance in the lobby of the warehouse turned office, to the broken melody of Auld Lang Syne, that's still drifting from somewhere in the distance. Still looping on a sound system, even as the celebrations come to a close and the inky blackness of midnight bleeds into the pearly gray of a new day; the soft orange of the rising sun burning off the haze.

It makes no difference to them. It's 2014. A new year. The song may speak of love and friendships gone by but this, this is new and exciting and it doesn't have to end. Not yet.

They have a while.

* * *

**So...thoughts? I can leave it like this because it can stand alone but part of me wants to add more. Not to this, but turn it into a multi-chapter thing. I know this is a bit of a surprise but I found a website where I can watch Human Target and my babies called me! They just...they called me! God, I've missed Chance and Ilsa so much, if it was possible to hug a fictional character, they would be at the top of my list right now. LOL! I'm a weirdo, I know. Leave me lots and lots of love, Dolls!**

**Love, **

**RobertDowneyJrLove**


	2. January, 2014

_January 2014 _

She takes him back to Belfast, Ireland.

It was only three days after the dawn of the new year that she had made her request for him to come with her on a ten day stay in northern Ireland. Although, he forgets that the woman he's come to know as utterly British is technically Irish, he will never forget the sight of those awful scars on her shoulder or hearing the story behind them. The anniversary of her parents' death is approaching and it's been far too long since she's visited her previously war-ravaged birthplace, a mere ghost of what was compared to the bright, shiny cities she calls home.

The hotel she books for them is expansive with comfortable rooms and just as delightful beds. Staying in such luxury is new for him but she seems right at home. At least, he thinks so, until their first night.

He's watching late night television because midnight in north Ireland was the rough equivalent to four in the afternoon in California. While he's certain jet lag will eventually catch up to him, when he adjusts to the eight hour time difference, insomnia had staked its claim and was not relenting in the slightest. David Letterman is in the middle of yet another lame attempt at humor when a knock on his door startles his attention away from the television. Biting back an annoyed groan, he climbs out of the bed and makes his way to the door.

"What do you - " he stops short at the sight that greets him.

Well.

Aside from looking like the most arousing thing that he could ever find at his door at midnight in a city like Belfast, she also looks terribly uncomfortable and in need of a friend. Her arms are crossed over her chest, gray bathrobe barely covering much more than the slip of emerald green he sees when her legs shift and the fabric parts, and her eyes are focused quite intently on the floor, as if the earth would open up at her will and swallow her whole.

He releases a breath, forcing his attraction on the back burner, in favor of being her friend. "C'mon in."

The door opens wider and he's surprised by how terribly reluctant she is to come into his room, even though she had knocked on his door. The same woman, who at home, wouldn't hesitate to barge in before he had the opportunity to answer, looks terrified to even look at him. Her movement is almost robotic when she finally walks into his room and sits down on the edge of the bed, stiff and unmoving. He watches her for a few seconds, taking in her near-catatonic state before deciding the direct approach was best; "Ilsa, what's going on?"

"I - I can't do this."

Her stuttering, fumbling for the right words to express her anxiety is all that he needs to know that she's taking it hard. He knew when she had asked him that it would be hard for her and he had wondered if she knew that. It is abundantly clear now that realization is setting in and she isn't prepared for the reality of where she is. He takes a seat next to her on the edge of the bed. Words will be meaningless, right now, so he doesn't bother but he can at least be there.

Several minutes of maddening silence pass before she speaks, croaks rather.

"Belfast is no longer my home." a curtain of black curls hide her face but her hand wiping her eyes and the soft sniffles tell him she's crying. "I don't know why I thought it was a good idea to come back. I don't see it for what it is. All I see is what it used to be."

"And, what is that, Ilsa?" Chance inquires softly, carefully.

She slips a hand through her hair, pulling it away from her face, and offers him a sardonic laugh. "A place ravaged by war, never truly at peace, and a place that nearly killed me."

He doesn't know what to say. There's nothing, really, that he can say. He can't change the way she sees her birthplace. She'll always see the place for what it used to be. It will never be home again. He spares a glance at the TV, where Letterman is ending, and it fades into a commercial. He looks back at Ilsa and cracks a half-hearted grin; "It doesn't look like we'll be getting any sleep tonight, so how about you crash here, we'll watch late night TV, order a late dinner?"

"That sounds lovely, Mister Chance."

It's the first genuine smile he's seen out of her since they landed. So, with a new determination to make the most of their ten day stay here and help her cope with memories, he stands up and makes his way around the bed to the phone on the other nightstand. Without the need of encouragement, Ilsa sheds her robe (Chance may or may not have gulped a little) and makes herself comfortable under the covers. He orders dinner and dessert for both of them before joining her in the bed. He tries not to think of the tiny piece of emerald fabric she's wearing underneath, or the fact that she's in his bed.

She makes him so damn uncomfortable. Or, maybe just horny.

They're up long after late night talk shows fade into infomericals and the dark blackness of night bleeds into the rose-gold hue of dawn. With a shy smile, she asks if he would like to come on a tour of Ireland with her. He already knows she won't go without him, so they make arrangements to meet in the lobby for breakfast after a hot shower to scrub the long night away and refresh them for a new day. He's waiting for her in the lobby when she steps off of the elevator in warm clothes and shockingly flat boots.

"Ready?"

Oh, the implications behind that question. Was she ready for what the day had in store? No. Definitely not. Was she ready to enjoy a breakfast with one of her best friends and enjoy his company? Yes. So with the impending anxiety of the day shoved into the back of her mind, she loops her arm around his and lets him lead her to the restaurant.

xxx

The journey through her past began with a friendly, if quiet breakfast.

She's anxious, nauseated even, when they finally venture out into the cold, but having him at her side calms her more than he'll ever know and more than she'll ever tell. She can't help but admire him, next to her in dark jeans, the neckline of a gray shirt peaking out of his black trench coat, and black shoes. Tall and strong and much braver than she's ever given him credit for. It's been a long while since she's been back to her previously war-ravaged birthplace and to her, it's a ghost of the past, pushed to the dark recesses of her mind. It doesn't take a genius to know that it's pure sense memory that takes him on a tour through Belfast.

The first place she takes him is, appropriately, her childhood home. It's a quaint little house tucked into a thicket of trees; not much left of it, having long ago been abandoned, but she remembers it clearly. Vivid details. She approaches the front door with a hesitance, staring at it as if it's a schoolyard bully that she can't quite work up the nerve to stand up to. She makes it onto the front porch but no further; memories, good and bad, keep her from entering what had at one time been a safe and familiar place for her. He waits in the yard, stationed like a bodyguard just by the steps, ready to haul her away at the first sign of a breakdown. His hands are shoved into his pockets, protecting them from the icy cold, and his eyes are fixated on her, watching her carefully.

"My mother," her boots scrape the layer of ice that covers the splintering wood of her front porch as she turns on her heel and moves closer to the first step. "She used to stand in this spot and see my Father off to work." she cups her hands together, as if cradling a mug of some sort. "She'd drink her coffee and watch him until he disappeared from sight, long after, even. Sometimes, by the time she came back in the house, her coffee would be frozen."

She carefully steps down, hands falling to her sides, and turns to face the front door. "She'd stand in that same place and see me off to school."

He reaches toward her, offering his hand to help her down the steps. Her gloved hand slides into his and she offers him a weak smile in gratitude. Ilsa relishes his strong hold, the support and the comfort it offers, even if it is just to help her down the icy steps. She never has anyone with her on these trips, not even Marshall had come with her. In all the years that she's been coming back, she never thought it would be so comforting to have someone with her. Someone to handle what she can't.

But, in a lot of ways, it seems inappropriate to dump all of her burdens on Chance. He deals with his own struggles and demons; faces his past everytime a new client comes calling for his protection and she's starting to realize that, all too often, she takes him for granted.

"Ilsa?" his warm breath mushrooms in a white cloud of condensation.

She just tightens her hand in his and ventures away from the house, tugging him along behind her. They end up ten minutes away from where they started, trudging along an overgrown path. Leaves crunch and twigs snap under their boots. He's starting to wonder where she's taking him until she stops and he nearly crashes into her back, slinging his arm around her hip to keep them both upright.

"Ilsa?"

"Here."

The emerald grass beneath their feet had once been worn to dust from years of use; from when she took it to school every morning. She remembers everything, even the exact spot where the bullet entered her shoulder and recalls with stunning clarity, her pained scream. The scared little girl hiding beneath the surface emerges as the memories fade into one another and she tells him that the second bullet had done the most damage. It had ricocheted. Nicked her clavicle. Almost nicked an artery. Nearly killed her.

"So much blood." her bottom lip quivers and she visibly trembles. "I almost fainted."

And it sends him into a tailspin.

He can't seem to wrap his head around what she's telling him. Ilsa Pucci, one of the strongest women he knew, had nearly died because of a fight that wasn't her own. He imagines her clearly; black curls bouncing against small shoulders, large brown eyes, and with such vibrancy about her. At the time, he likes to think, her accent would have veered more toward Irish than British and it's easy to imagine the smooth brogue and how easily it would suit her smooth voice.

"I spent a month recovering." Ilsa inhales sharply, trying in vain to dry her eyes. "My, uh, accent changed when my parents sent me to London. Hell, I changed when they sent me to London." she recalls, looking down at the ground. Where she was nearly killed; where her life changed. "They scraped up all the money they could to send me to London. They wanted better for me. I wasn't going to complain."

"Ilsa - "

"I know how I act, sometimes, Mister Chance." Ilsa interrupts him sharply, crossing her arms over her chest. She doesn't like this vulnerable feeling; doesn't like being exposed to him like this. "You have to understand, I do it out of genuine concern, not to annoy you."

"You don't have to explain, Ilsa." Chance shakes his head.

"Yes, I do."

"You were shot, Ilsa, as a kid. You don't owe me an explanation." The reality is, he can't handle it. He can't handle her explanation, not knowing how they've treated each other, but it's obvious she wants to explain so despite his discomfort and his anguish at having to hear it, he listens.

"I just don't like to see you hurt, not and face the same thing I did." Ilsa backs away a few steps and focuses intently on the leaves crushed by her boots. "That bullet left me in the hospital for a month. I don't want to see you end up like that, or worse."

Her words hang in the air; a token of friendship, a peace offering of sorts, in some way that neither of them really understand. Something very palpable and very real but unreaching simmers beneath the surface, even with the intimacy of that dance shared at midnight New Year's day lingering between them. This intimacy, this knowledge that they stood on the same ground, shaky though it was sometimes, it's all very new and they're both scared of what could happen with the lightest little push. Even though, if it was up to Winston, Chance knows his ass would have been kicked long ago when it came to Ilsa.

In that aspect, Winston was braver. Unafraid of what might happen if he pushed, always willing to take a chance, only backing down when he's almost crossed that line. Whereas Chance was a little more cautious, less likely to take risks that might push the boundaries of his personal life. If he lets Ilsa in, let's her cross those boundaries, he's afraid she won't like what she finds. There's so much holding him back, so much he can't risk, that he doesn't want to, that it scares him into shutting down completely. But, now, he can't. She's exposed herself, let herself be open with him, offered him something that shows that they aren't much different.

"It happened in Sarajevo," he tugs his jacket off and turns away from her, lifting his shirt slightly to let her see. She looks up from her boots at the sound of his voice to see him holding his shirt just above an intricate weaving of silvery scars tattooed along his lower back. "Got tangled up in some barbed wire, trying to get away."

He feels one of her gloved fingers tracing the maze of silver, warm breath tickling his neck. She traces halfway across his back before hooking her fingers onto the hem of his shirt and pulling it down. She's seen enough. She slides her hand up his back and squeezes his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"The person who saved my life, who pulled me out of the barbed wire, was a doctor." Maybe it's the memory, or maybe it's just a need to make sure she won't run away like every other person in his life has, but he covers her hand with his before he speaks again. "He put me under, stitched up my back, and the next day I found a bag with a note and enough money to get out of the country. I didn't deserve his help."

"Chance - "

"I was there to kill him." Chance interrupts her, turning around to face her. He needs to see her reaction; needs to know what she thinks when forced to confront his past. The range of emotions clouding her eyes completely baffles him; confusion and fear melding into something softer, something a little more caring and maternal. There's a decided lack of hatred, of what he's been expecting, wanting even, just to see the steely Ilsa, he's been witness to before. "I was there because someone was willing to give me ten thousand dollars to put a bullet in his head."

"But you didn't." Oh, his tough self-loathing bravado is no match for her tender rationale but she's not going to let him get away with hating himself. She has no qualms about scolding him, even now. "The past is the past and I think you've let it shame you into a corner for far too long. We both have."

Oh, is that true. Wow. She really has a way of getting to him but that doesn't mean he missed that last part about her doing it too. It's all an act, a show they put on, pretending they're okay when really, their pasts are eating away at them. He wonders how long she's been carrying around the memories of her childhood, waiting to tell them to somebody, especially when she could have told her husband. His eyebrows furrow in confusion, curious as to why she would tell him something she probably never told her husband. "Ilsa, did you ever tell your husband any of this? Your childhood?"

"Heavens, no." Ilsa shakes her head with a dry laugh, "He wouldn't have understood. He came from a privileged background, never knew what it was like to work your way up to something. It was practically handed to him the day he was born. He was a hard worker and every penny we have was legitimately earned, but the company was an inheritance."

"Why me?"

"Because, you have scars just like I do." Ilsa explains, as if it is the simplest thing in the world. "If anyone was going to understand it was you."

"How long..?" he fumbles slightly, pausing to gather his thoughts. "How long have you been carrying this around with you?"

"I'd guess about as long as you've been carrying around Sarajevo." she teases him, hoping to lighten the mood. She dissolves into laughter when all he can offer in reply is a sheepish expression. His laughter surprises her but she enjoys it nonetheless. It isn't often, especially in their line of work, that they're afforded a good laugh, something to break up the tension, and chase away the demons brought about by their missions. She sobers up and reaches for his hand again. "Come on. It's cold and I need coffee."

The coffee shop closest to her childhood home offers warmth, strong coffee, and a selection of delicate pastries. He ushers her into a booth to warm up while he orders for them - two large cups of coffee, black, and a box of everything swimming in chocolate. She needs the endorphin rush - hell, they both do after the morning they've had. It's a delicate balancing act carrying two cups of coffee and pastry box but he manages. He passes her a cup of coffee and sets the box down to open it, encouraging her to eat at least one of the chocolate confections.

Conversation flows easily, their mugs see numerous refills, and between them, they consume enough chocolate for at least six people if not more. The rest of the morning is occupied, not with recollections of the past, but explorations of the present. It's noon before they venture back out into the cold to find their way back to the hotel. He makes her laugh, shares stories of some of his not-so-bright moments, and for the first time since they began their journey through her childhood began, she finally feels like it's not something she has to hide.

Perhaps, their trip to Ireland wasn't a waste, after all.


	3. February, 2014

It's a bit cliche, the way it happens but it is them and despite all efforts to the contrary, they've always had the 'knight in battle-worn armor saves princess from certain death' thing surrounding them, practically since they met. It happens in a series of unfortunate events - not that her life is a Lemony Snicket novel - that closely resembles the kind of chain reactions, she was taught about in school. One event sets off whatever happens after it and so on.

Her five hundred dollar heels, ones she had lusted after for a month but never had the opportunity to buy, had fit like a dream and wearing them to work had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. Heels and the right skirt always threw Chance off of his game a little bit. Not that, that was her objective, just a happy coincidence. Even if seeing him trip over himself was amusing. She didn't count on the damn things snapping like cheap plastic as soon as she stepped off the elevator but she's barely out of the elevator before she hears what sounds like a twig snapping and feels her ankle roll. Due to her loss of balance, and maybe because the universe is against her, the to-go cup of coffee in her hand jostles and why hadn't she just left the lid on?

There went that blouse.

Her sparkling white, fresh from the tailor blouse that she adored, now had a sizable - and still hot - coffee stain down the front. She's bracing herself for the inevitable but it never happens. Arms lock around her waist and her head collides with a broad chest, the smell of cologne, or maybe aftershave, dizzies her. He shifts her slightly so that she's upright once more and keeps his hold on her to allow her a moment to compose herself and recover from the shock.

"You okay?" his attempt to release her fails as she grabs his arm in fear that she may actually hit the ground this time. He looks down to find that one of her heels had snapped and the actual heel had skittered across the hardwood floor and was now by the elevator. She was balancing on a broken shoe and a shoe that was too high for her to balance properly on one foot. "Take the other one off."

"I can't."

Without need of a request, he scoops her up and carries her through the warehouse, up to his loft. How he manages the stairs with her in his arms will forever remain a mystery to her but he does and drops her on his couch. She breathes a sigh of relief when she's finally sitting down and can take her shoes off. She stares grumpily at the broken shoe and mumbles something that sounds like, "Waste of money!", but could have been something much more obscene.

He just laughs and taps her leg, "Let me see your ankle."

Oh boy.

This would be interesting. She turns to rest against the arm of the couch, bending one knee against the couch, and propping her very sore ankle on his knee for his inspection. It's only when her leg touches his knee does she realize that he's still wearing his sweatpants. The soft material is warm against her skin and his hands are just as warm and slightly rough. His fingerpads scrape along the underground network of veins beneath the skin, unconsciously feeling the faint thrum of her pulse. Elevated, no doubt.

"Just a sprain. It will be sore." Chance looks up at her. "Come on, I'll take you home so you can change."

Ilsa nods and he reluctantly releases her ankle so that she can stand up. "I'm afraid, this blouse is ruined."

He helps her up and over to the stairs. It's a slow hobble, with Ilsa not being able to rely on Chance to help her without both of them falling. He, on the other hand, goes no faster than Ilsa can manage with her sore, slightly wobbly ankle. She needn't hurt anymore today. He steps off of the last step before she does and before she touch the ground, he scoops her up again. Her curious _(okay, angry) _glare made him laugh and point out the distance from the stairs to elevator. "There is no way you can make it to the elevator, not on that ankle."

She concedes his point and relaxes into his hold. He is surprised, normally by now, she would have been protesting loudly about not needing his help, that she could help herself. He supposes her ankle could be hurting her enough not to care about her independence but he suspects that more than her ankle was bruised - her pride had taken a hit and had been silenced by the pain in her foot. There were times, more serious than this, when he wished she would have kept silent and let him help her but he understands why she didn't.

At the time, she had been a fish out of water in his world, and to have him always helping her, it made her look weak. Incapable of handling the business she was in and he, himself, had been guilty of that same thought, even going so far as to call her a trophy wife. He had learned later just how wrong he was to ever think that she couldn't take care of herself and how stupid it was of him to call her a trophy wife.

But, was it so wrong of him to want to take care of her, sometimes?

xxx

Her heel and the spilled coffee is left for someone else to deal with while Chance takes her home. The ride to her place happens without further incident, although he had noticed Ilsa biting down on her lip a couple of times to hide the fact that her ankle hurt and would be making sure she spent at least a few minutes with an ice pack. It's silent but not completely uncomfortable between them but then again, since their conversation in Ireland, sharing battle scars, they haven't really had a chance to talk for more than a few minutes before he leaves to save a client.

It's a slow walk-hobble sort of thing that gets them to her apartment and a quick fumble for Chance's keys so that he can use the spare - after, Hector Lopez, she had gifted him with the spare for easy access, should another emergency ever come up. "Okay," Chance sighs once they're in the door, only to notice stairs in her apartment. "Okay, I'm guessing your bedroom is up the stairs?"

"No." Ilsa shakes her head, nodding to the short hallway leading off of the kitchen. "After my attack, I moved to the guest room."

He doesn't say anything. Not because he doesn't want to insult her - which he doesn't - but because he has nothing to say. What was he supposed to say? That it's been almost four years? That she shouldn't let fear control her like that? That would be hypocritical. Fear had done more than control him the night of her attack. It had constricted him, squeezed the air from his lungs, pulled something from him that he thought had been long gone.

And, then, in Ireland when he had seen her so vulnerable, willing to let her past consume her, if only to show him that they weren't as different as he thought, that feeling had returned. That innate _need _to protect her.

He doesn't seem aware of it, but she feels how his arm tightens around her, and how unwilling he is to let her go once they reach her bedroom door.

"Chance," she reaches down to hold the hand that's clinging to her hip. "I need to go change so we can go back to work."

"Oh. Right. Yeah."

It's reluctant but he lets her go, nevertheless. He trudges back to the kitchen and unabashedly digs through it until he finds what he needs. A tea towel is pulled a from a drawer and he rips the ice tray out of it's place in the freezer. He listens for any signs of distress while he fixes the makeshift ice pack for her. He'll never tell her that he really wishes she'd stay at home and take care of her ankle, not limp around the office to take care of monotonous paperwork that can wait.

But, Ilsa, ever the work-aholic, would never listen to him.

He dumps the ice tray on the counter and heads down the hallway again. Maybe she wouldn't listen to him but he had to try, at the very least. He should knock but Ilsa's well-being is far more important to him than her state of undress, whatever that might be. Knocking is a waste of time - she can't come to the door, anyway - but when he stumbles through the door, he realizes that perhaps it might have saved them both an incredible amount of embarrassment. She gasps in shock, reaching for the blouse on the bed.

She is _not _dressed, at least not from the waist up.

She's standing in front of her bed so _very _topless and he needs to go before things get awkward. He backs out of the room and closes the door behind him with a mumbled apology, leaving Ilsa standing there with wide eyes and a crimson flush staining her cheeks. She quickly redresses in her clean shirt and waits in vain for her cheeks to cool.

He's just staring at the ice tray and tea towel when he hears her bedroom door open and a pained call, "Chance?"

Once again leaving the makings of an icepack, he heads down the hall to help her into the living room. She's fully dressed this time - thank, the powers that be - in the same black skirt with a soft violet blouse and a pair of very uncharacteristic flats in her hand. No eye contact. None. Which should be relatively easy considering the previous incident. It doesn't matter about that, because the image of her standing by her bed in only her bra and skirt is forever burned into his brain and has awakened his decidedly more carnal arousal.

"I'll go get you an ice pack." Chance mumbles, gently depositing her on the couch. She's waiting patiently, staring at her hands, when he returns with the homemade ice pack. He lifts her feet and turns to sit, dropping her feet in his lap. A surprised noise escapes her when he holds the towel-wrapped ice to her ankle. "You should think about staying home today. You shouldn't walk on this."

"You should think about knocking." Ilsa counters, mirth dancing in her eyes.

"Hey, I - "

"Stop." Ilsa holds up her hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. When she has his attention, she drops her hand and forges ahead with her quest. She is determined to talk about what happened in Ireland, even if he is not. "Chance, we have to talk."

"About what?" his eyes drop to his lap in clear avoidance. Oh, brilliant plan. Like, she isn't going to pick up on it.

"You, of all people, should know about what." she's clearly not taking any of this avoidance crap because she continues without letting him get a word in edge-wise. "We shared things with each other in Ireland. I told you things about my past, my husband didn't even know."

"I know, Ilsa. And, I think it's great you feel comfortable sharing all that with me but - " he drops off with a forlorn sigh. "Ilsa, I can't do this."

"You aren't doing anything!" Ilsa cries foul. She likes to think that by now, she knows him well enough to know when he's uncomfortable and he is most definitely uncomfortable. But, she's fed up with his clever tactics to charm his way out of this conversation or come up with a lame excuse when the simple truth is, he's scared. He still wants to fold her away from the world, keep her tucked away like some little secret that nobody can ever know about. She guesses he thinks that if no one knows about her, than no one can get to her. "Being scared is no way to get out of this."

"I'm not scared." Chance insists, but even he knows he's lying.

"Yes, you are." she leans forward, wrapping a hand around his forearm and tugging it to her, cradling his hand in both of hers. "You want to protect me but as I've said before, Mister Chance, I'm fine. I can take care of myself, you know."

"I know." Chance grumbles.

"Excuse me?"

"You can take care of yourself. I know that!" a whole storm of conflict rages in his eyes and his guard slips for the briefest of moments. "But, it means you don't listen to me, Ilsa. Yes, I want to protect you, because there are people out there that want me dead. My old boss would love nothing more than to get one of his men after me. If he finds out about you, he'll want both of us."

"You've protected me from far worse, Mister Chance." Ilsa reminds him gently, rubbing her thumb across the veins in the back of his hand. "I never would have been able to escape the CIA without you. What's so different about now?"

He hangs his head, releasing a long breath, before looking up at her. "Because, I wasn't sure how I felt about you then. All I knew was that we had to get away and I had to keep you alive. I didn't know that I would come to..."

"Come to what?" Ilsa wills herself not to smile. Not appropriate, not while he's fighting with himself like this. Not when he's opening up to her like this.

"I like you, Ilsa." Chance growls, huffing out a long breath. "I have feelings for you and if I want to protect you, it's because everyone I've ever cared about has gotten hurt and I don't want that to happen to you."

Oh.

_Oh. _

She understands now. This is about his fear of her getting hurt should he get too close to her and how her independence might keep her from listening to him when he's trying to protect her. But, more than that, he's afraid of his feelings for her. He's afraid to feel anything, afraid that if he does, if he lets himself develop feelings for something, his world will come crashing down around him again. Like it had with Katherine and Maria.

"Mister Chance, I want you to listen to me." Ilsa regards him with respect and a certain fondness, her voice strong but completely calm. "If you feel that I am in danger but I am not listening to you, I want you to tell me. I want you to do whatever you think you have to do to make me listen to you. I am stubborn but I'd like to change that. I see now, how much it would mean to you if I tried to."

"Thank you."

"It is really I, who should be thanking you." she squeezes his hand affectionately. "It isn't very often that you communicate so openly like this. I know it can't be easy for you."

"It's getting easier." Chance offers her a ghost of a smile. "I'll knock before I open any doors, though."

"Thank you."

With a laugh, their conversation changes into something familiar and comfortable - bickering like children. She does listen this time when he asks her to stay home but only on the condition that he keep her company. Yes, they both had work to on their relationship, personal and professional, but this was a step in the right direction. She opens up about her relationship with Marshall and how his death had changed her view on him. She also shares her feelings for Chance and how, he is no longer her investment, but a friend and how she'd very much like him to come back to her at the end of a mission.

As long as he knocked.

* * *

**Six drafts, a long-hand attempt with pen and paper, and many hours and days later, I give you February! Is it cliche? Probably but after the heaviness of the last chapter, I really didn't care how cliche this seems. Heck, I even knowledge the fact that it's cliche in the first sentence! I like it and we're gonna keep it! So, leave me some love, dolls! **

**Love, **

**RobertDowneyJrLove**

**P.S. Why no conversation about him seeing her topless? Well this is set three years after the series finale, the way I figure it, this probably isn't the first time he's seen her without a shirt on. It is awkward, but nothing they probably haven't dealt with before. At least, in my head. I really should work on that. I work all of this stuff out in my head and don't incorporate it, when I probably should. **


	4. March, 2014

Huh.

So, _that _is how you get Christopher Chance to take his clothes off. If she would have known that, she might have employed such methods, however devious, much sooner. Not that she would change anything about how their evening has gone so far, but knowing what she knows now, she does wish such endeavors had taken place a couple of weeks ago, just before their last argument. It might have prevented things from being said, things which they both regretted later. And, really, all it had taken was a simple seafood with pasta recipe - _not _tortellini, the very sight of the aforementioned pasta made her giggle uncontrollably and recall with a stony sobriety the events that transpired after that moment between them - and some dark chocolate filled strawberries to, ahem, grease the wheels so to speak. Oh, and there may or may not have been white wine involved. A glass for each, but no more because he doesn't care for it, preferring hard liquor, and she had wanted to be somewhat sober in case the night went as she hoped it would.

Oh, and it had, indeed.

She almost feels bad for using such deceitful means to get what she wanted. Almost. There is no way in hell she is ever going to feel bad about what just happened between them. And, anyway, in her defense, things between them had been moving at a snail's pace since the whole CIA debacle and even since Ireland, she had just wanted to give whatever it was between them a little boost. If the result of that little boost is a very naked Christopher Chance in her bed, then who is she to complain? And hell, if she has ever felt this satisfied in her life, she certainly can't remember it.

"You know," she lightly grazes his stomach with her fingernails, watching with childish delight as the muscles ripple beneath the skin. He wills himself not to groan, instead choosing to focus on his breathing and what she is saying. Even though her hand is now on his chest, fingers sinking in the dusting of coarse blond hair that can be found there. She stares at him with a delighted smile and not entirely guileless brown eyes. "If I had known that cooking for you would get us here, I would have cooked for you sooner."

He offers her a sharp, gruff laugh in return and idly slips a hand through her tangled mess of sweat dampened curls. "If you had," he tugs lightly on her hair, taking unshown delight in the way the skin of her bare shoulders and arms erupt into goosebumps. "I might not have taken the bait."

"I didn't bait you!" Ilsa gasps indignantly, raising up slightly to look at him. The sheets slip down, exposing just enough of her lush cleavage to tease but she pays it no mind, her focus solely on defending herself. "I merely," he waits through her pause with bated breath and a teasing grin tugging anxiously on the corners of his mouth; "wanted to do something nice for you."

Oh please.

The woman had all but asked him to strip. It hadn't taken him but a quick glance at the menu for the evening to figure out what she was doing. Not that he had minded, of course. She was a beautiful woman and if cooking for him, offering a simple but rare indulgence of a fine wine for them to share, and a plate full of chocolate filled strawberries was her way of saying she wanted more, then he was not going to object.

"Ilsa, I'd be an idiot not to know that chocolate is an aphrodisiac." Chance grins down at her teasingly. Damn him. He is enjoying this way too much. "The seafood, the chocolate. The wine. It didn't take much to figure out what you were doing but I like watching you cook." There's a spark of mischief in his eyes now and it makes her uncomfortable. "And, it was fun to see you so nervous, so I let you think I didn't know."

"Bloody jackass."

She nips at his collarbone, lips puckering against the skin, and her tongue soothing the spot with damp heat. His rough growl vibrates against her mouth and the scratchy noise in her ear does nothing but elicit a giggle. He's clearly not amused because he returns her ministrations with a torturous caress of the smooth flesh just above her breasts. The giggle shifts into a sharp intake of air and there's a long pause before she settles her head onto his shoulder and finds content in something far less arousing - for her. For him, it's damn near the worst possible torture to have her hand on his abdomen.

"Are you worried what people will say?" she raises her head and settles her chin on his collarbone, the carnivorous sheen in her eyes is gone. Spent from their previous activities, but she still looks at him with an eagerness, he'd be hard-pressed to miss.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that question?" Chance grins down at her. "I mean, given what just happened, I think you can figure out that I really don't care."

"Me neither." Ilsa shrugs, "But, you've known Winston and Guerrero longer than I have."

"Winston all but drove me to the airport himself when we thought you were leaving." Chance raises his eyebrow, daring her to challenge that. "And Guerrero seems to think I'm bad at reading chicks, so he won't believe me."

"He wouldn't me, either." Ilsa laughs softly, her breath moist and warm on his skin.

"Offer him enough cash and he might." Chance retorts with a wide grin.

"The man would break me." Ilsa deadpans in return. She tilts her head and regards him with questioning eyes. "You are not going to regret this, are you?"

"Like hell I am." Chance almost bolts upright, wondering just where in the hell this was coming from. "Are you?"

"I did all of this, didn't I?" it's Ilsa's turn to raise her eyebrows and he settles back down, conceding her point with a nod. "I knew how I wanted this evening to go and I knew that if that's what I really wanted, I couldn't have any doubts. If I doubted it, I knew I'd regret it. I don't want that."

"Me neither."

"Then, perhaps." she resumes her chosen method of torture, sucking and licking and biting her way down his collarbone. "We should make it clear that there are no regrets. Just so we know."

"Oh, of course." his Machiavellian smirk returns in all of it's shit-eating glory as he rolls them over and buries his face in her neck. "Just," kiss "so," suck "we" bite (_groan) _"know."

Oh no.

No regrets.

xxx

He's gone by the time she awakens the next morning, but there's a note next to her bed. He'd left early, not because he wanted to, but because Winston had called him with a new client and he needed to be at the warehouse to meet them. The smell of her favorite coffee lingers and she can only guess that he'd pressed the button to set it to brew before he left to meet whoever needed his help this week. She drops the note in her bedside drawer and stands up, reaching for something to cover herself up with.

It's then, that she notices what he forgot.

Crumpled in the corner, most likely missing a few buttons, and very wrinkled was the light blue button down shirt he'd been wearing the night before. She remembers the hint of spicy cologne and minty aftershave clinging to the collar and the smell of starch lingering in the fabric. She remembers the distinct way the sleeves fit around his arms, the way he'd rolled them up to his elbows, and the way the fabric had pulled and shifted across the broad strength of his shoulders. She had willed herself not to rip it when taking it off of him, wanting to savor the feel and smell of something so very Chance.

With a smile, she reaches for the shirt and holds it up to examine it. To her surprise, it's in perfect condition aside from needing an iron. So, she hadn't given in and just ripped the damn thing, after all. Not wanting to let go of all evidence of the previous night just yet, she slips the shirt on and does a few buttons before heading downstairs and have a cup of coffee before she heads to the office and the pile of paperwork that no doubt awaits her.

The remnants from last night's dinner wait for her on the table - cream sauce dried on the plates and strawberries strewn about. She picks up the plates, dropping them in the sink for later, and gathers the strawberry stems to be tossed in the garbage. Pouring herself a cup of coffee and heading up to her bedroom to get ready for the day, she mentally plans to repeat last night as soon as physically possible.

Winston is the only one in the warehouse when she makes it to work.

Chance is out with his client, Guerrero and Ames' whereabouts are probably best left alone, and Winston is in the conference room researching every little detail about the man, whose life is in their hands. She had asked him one time why he did such extensive research on a person and he had told her that it was Chance's best weapon. The more he knew about a person, the better he could help them. She had gone on to ask him if he had done the same for her and had been pleasantly surprised to learn that Chance had asked him not to do so unless necessary.

_"You were different from the beginning." _

She leaves him to his work and slips quietly into her office, closing the glass door behind her. Sitting down at her desk, she slips out of her heels, picks up her pen and gets to work. All paperwork needed by the board of directors is put in an envelope, ready to be shipped to London. She's just about to call her attorney about all of the waivers that seem unncessary when her cell phone rings. "Hello," she signs yet another waiver, sandwiching the phone between her ear and her shoulder.

"Hey Ilsa." Chance greets breathlessly.

"Hello Mister Chance." she perks up at the sound of his voice.

Well, he certainly had her attention now. Her distraction had been apparent when she answered and he had realized right away that she hadn't spared a glance at her phone to see who was calling. He takes a moment to check on the client, studiously writing what he knows about the mess he's in on a pad of legal paper, before turning back to his conversation. "Listen, I'm going to be gone a couple of days. This case is bigger than I thought."

"Alright, is there anything you need?" her disappointment hides behind a cool facade of professionalism.

"Yeah." Chance grimaces slightly at her colder tone. "But, Winston's taking care of it. Ilsa - "

"Mister Chance, now's not really the time." Ilsa interrupts him, closing her eyes as she drops her chin to her chest. "Not while you're on a mission."

"I have to go. I'll talk to you later. Bye, Ilsa."

"Goodbye, Mister Chance."

xxx

He's always been a bit impulsive, reckless even, not having that tendency to think things through. Perhaps it's that, or perhaps it's something else entirely that has him pulling up to Ilsa's as Thursday begins its slow bleed into Friday. Everything that's happened between them - the trip to Belfast, telling her what happened in Sarajevo, that one _very _memorable night last week - it's all confusing to him. Every time he's gotten close to someone, they're ripped away but _she _is different. She's always been different. The woman has put her reputation and even her life on the line for him, because of him, and despite trying to run away, she always stayed. She never left. But, it's not just her tendency to run away from her problems that keeps him afraid of losing her.

It's the Old Man.

He's still out there and he's still hanging the same tired, old bullshit over his head, swinging it around like a lasso in hopes of roping him back into the business. "The family business" is what he had called it for years. And, before adopting the moniker, Christopher Chance, he had been Junior. The Old Man's favorite and pick to take over the business should he wish to retire or something should happen to him. _(Chance was still waiting for that day.) _

Still, he can't run away from Ilsa because of something the Old Man might do. It's a vicious cycle and eventually, it's going to end and badly, at that. They're going to get sick of the other running and the world, the life they've built for themselves is going to crash down around them. He has to stop running. And, eventually, he's going to have to get out of his car. He turns the key and pulls it out of the ignition before getting out of the car. He pockets his keys and makes his way to her door. He's barely had time to ring the doorbell before she appears and is that his shirt?

"I was beginning to wonder if you were going to come to the door or just sit in your car all night." her laugh as she opens the door catches him off guard. "You have a key, you didn't have to ring the doorbell."

"I know but I - " Oh crap. He can't do this; can't tell her the truth. Given, his lie is half-baked, it's better than telling her the truth. "It's midnight, I didn't want to just barge in."

The disbelief sparks in her eyes and her arms fold over her chest. "Really?"

"No." he shakes his head, "I came here to - "

"To what, Mister Chance?"

He's not sure if it is the distinct, slightly sultry way she says his name or maybe, it's the way she looks in his shirt, but _something _gives him a push and before either of them can say anything else, he's slammed her into the nearest wall and kicked her door shut with his foot. His hands explore whatever part of her is within reach and she responds in kind. He wants this, he does, but there's also a part of him that needs this. He needs this closeness, this intimacy. He'd never been this close to a woman, at least not close enough that it could lead to anything more than pain and grief at the hands of Baptiste. Then again, Maria really had been his own fault. But, there's Ilsa and she's soft and warm and just so _there. _She cooks for him and takes care of him and is what he never really thought about wanting or needing. She is the stability to his recklessness; the rationale to his insanity.

And, he's finally stopped running long enough to see it.

* * *

**About the last part - I know, before it is said, that it seems out of place given everything before it but let tell you my train of thought. Yes, he did tell her that he didn't have any regrets but he got up and left the next morning, given it was for a good reason, I think that being away from her would give him time to think about it. No, he may not have regrets, but he would have a certain reluctance about it. Does he want this with her knowing the old man is still out there? Does he want to keep running from something that is so good? No. So, no, he doesn't have regrets, but there at the end, he did have his doubts. Still, it does seem out of place. Leave me some love, Dolls! **

**Love, **

**RobertDowneyJrLove **


End file.
